This is going to be a long story
about how I came to have short hair. I am guessing that most women
consider hair care a process, a project and oftentimes a problem. We change
color for fun when we are young, and we use color to cover the greys that come
with getting older. We try the newest styles and buy the appurtenances
and appliances to affect all the hoopla of our hair. Having lovely,
perhaps luxurious locks, can be a labor of love. To paraphrase Jack Webb
- the story you are about to read is true. No names have been changed,
because I like to embarrass myself!
My youthful locks at Lake George, NY with my dad. Probably 1964.
I have written before about how as a
kid my mother tried many ways to tame my tresses from tot to teen. Here
is an excerpt from my blog titled Sanity Over Vanity.
When I was young, in the sixties, straight hair was all the rage. My mom would either have my hair cut short, or when it was longer, she'd put roll large curlers into my locks and secure them with big bobby pins. I would go out to the street - we actually played in the road - and join a neighborhood round of baseball with curlers in place. My hair was not of the Twiggy variety. If it was cut short, it was not a cute bob, it was more of a modified 'fro. If it was long, it didn't limply hang down. It curled up and the humidity made it look like a frizzy mess. And of course, I wasn't blond. That gave me two reasons to gripe about my hair - not straight and not blond.
My mom began to straighten my hair when I hit that magical 13th year. Then, instead of sending me outside with curlers and oftentimes a scarf to cover them up, I would endure sitting in the kitchen while she applied chemicals close to my brain, used her trusty rollers to 'set' the straightening, and sat me in a chair facing away from the table while a tabletop hair dryer completed the arduous process. In between this homemade beauty parlor operation, I would take those giant curlers and put two or three at the crown of my head and wrap the rest of my hair around my head, using my cranium as a giant curler. To even out the wave, I would wake up in the middle of the night to rewrap in the other direction. All this for a cute class photo! And the whole ordeal was moot if it began to drizzle. Or frizzle as was affectionately called rain.
OK - that sped up getting us from 0-60. Let’s resume. In my twenties I stopped manipulating Mother Nature, and in a small way, began to embrace my curls. My hair behaved better in the dry heat of Colorado than the steamy humidity of the Hudson Valley (NY) where I grew up. The longer it grew, the straighter the top became. My hair was thick and would form curls right above my ears all the way down to the hooks of my bra. And we ladies know that is an official unit of measure when talking about hair length. We have chin, shoulder, bra top, bra bottom, waist, butt and Holy Cow - it's Crystal Gayle!
I have played around with bangs and
the painful process of growing them out; pushing my hair to one side, pinning
them back, even emulating the Farrah Fawcett feather look, which does not work well
on non-northern European hair types. I've had highlights where my hair
was pulled with a crochet-hook through the pinholes of a shower cap to randomly
lighten strands. I've had more foils in my hair than a hand-held burrito
joint buys in a month. My hair has also been chemically straightened
(professionally - not like mom in the above excerpt) once or twice, but the
odor of the solution is enough for me to refrain from doing that again.
Full and natural at the Grand Canyon. Winter of 1987.
In my late thirties, when a few errant greys starting poking through my follicles, I tried the at home box of coloring by numbers for hair. Mostly it went well, but I had to call the Clairol Rescue Rangers more than once for a correction. Let's just say that I am not an attractive redhead, and that hue is best left for Carrot Top. In my forties the greys started coming in fast and furious and I returned to the salon in an effort to revert to my youthful splendor. Being cheap rebounded me back to the box, and the results were tres un-chic.
My middle daughter (she is a chef) and me in Boulder. A not-so-good-looking redhead in 2011!
In 2014, my youngest daughter
graduated Paul Mitchell the School with a degree in cosmetology, which is a
diploma in hair, not the study of Carl Sagan. During her schooling and
for many years thereafter this kid was my beautician. She brought me
through different lengths and styles, and we played around with color. I
was actually a blonde at the end of my dying career. For about six years
my hair care feng shui was simple. I grew it longer and kept the split
ends at bay.
Fast-forward five years to the
summer of 2020. My hair color is at long last all my own. Instead
of a mousy, dull grey I have been blessed with salt and pepper hair that has a
beautiful array of color and variations. Many times, I have thought why
did I ever bother with all of that coloring and covering up? That falls
under the if only I had known regrets that clutter my mental rolodex.
Anyway, after not seeing my daughter much during lockdown (is there a pun
there?) I decided to go short. I was tired of having a wisp-thin ponytail.
Intellectually I knew that if I didn’t like it, hair grows back.
Eventually.
My daughter, acting like 2/3
hairdresser and 1/3 therapist, wanted to know if I am sure. Really
sure. I tell her yes, as long as my hair doesn’t end up as a round ball
of curls framing my face. I don't want my brother's protest hair of
his 1970's college days. After a thorough grilling, I finally
convince the child who wields scissors that I am indeed ready. She snips
and sprays and shapes and scrunches and sends me to look in the bathroom
mirror. I love it! I am in love with my short, silvery curls. She's
cut the top longer and the sides and back are closer to my scalp. I cry
tears of joy at my anticipated newfound freedom from the drudgery of hair.
Remember - I told you this would be
a long story and here is chapter two!
Keeping hair short and shaped
requires less daily work; I just run my wet hands through my morning bed head,
dab a little product and take less than a minute to finger coif my curls.
The problem is I would like it cut every month and that doesn't work out for my
daughter and me. We live 40 miles apart and when we see each other hair
isn't the top priority. For one of us that is. We're either at a
family gathering or meeting in a public place. What! No trim in the
Denver Zoo car park on a 95-degree day? Sometimes
she is dropping my granddaughter off for me to babysit and in those instances, somehow
packing a scissor and cape doesn’t happen. I've had a few too many
outdoor haircuts on my balcony or my daughter's porch where I was I cold and
she was clipping away while donning a down coat. I am not kidding.
As time has passed these past two years both my daughter and I have come to
realize that my hair is not her utmost concern. The reality is she does
not work at a salon, and barely has since her graduation. She is a
part-time student and a full-time, single mom. For me it was a constant disappointment
to not get the wished-for haircut because time ran short, or my daughter was
running late, or it was too cold, or my granddaughter was tired, or a
smorgasbord of other excuses.
Waiting for the right moment in time and space to get a haircut. Bedhead of the pandemic!
The last time my kid took scissors to my head was sometime between Tax Day and Mother’s Day of 2022. If summer makes hair grow faster, I was living proof. Barely a week into June my hair was unruly. I was at the Jersey Shore and the expected humidity did not materialize and my hair was ready to be shorter. For the first time in about a decade I was going to have a salon haircut. The kind where my hair is washed in a beauty parlor sink and I sit in a chair that goes up and down and twirls around. I looked up Curly Girl salons, picked one and committed to take Ruby** a few miles south to indulge myself. The stylist seemed confident and competent. After a short (no pun intended) consultation, I am reclining in the wash house and her fingers are gently massaging my scalp. And I must admit that this felt much better than flipping my head into a kitchen sink, while bending at my waist and having a DYI moment in the same basin that holds a garbage disposal. Tiffany was a quick cutter and in no time she marched me back to the wash house to swish away little hairs and also to apply a cast*** to very wet hair. No blow-dry needed, par usual, and almost a hundred buckaroos later, including tip, I am out the door. Ouch! That hurt. If I give up having my offspring cut my springy hair does that mean a twenty-five dollar per week maintenance fee? My hair looks good, and I am not unhappy, but I am having some serious post-styling monetary blues!
Beach hair in Avon by the Sea, NJ. Summer of 2022.
My mind races over the next few days
about everything from what an indulgence to can I somehow cut my hair
myself? Finally, I let it go (or did I?), and just enjoy the beach, my
bro and my new do. Then I am back in Colorado, and I am at the seven-week
mark and my hair is back to the shaggy stage. I am doing too much work
and using too much product to get the tight to my head curls I prefer. My
hair is long enough that swimming laps without a cap results in hair almost covering
my goggles. I need some upkeep and honestly? I do not feel like
asking my daughter. I could recite a litany here, but the main reason (or
is that mane reason) is that when I saw my daughter upon my return from my six-week
trip, she commented that my hair looked like it had hardly grown in my
time away. I had to confess. I told her I was unfaithful and went to a salon. Instead of being aghast or hurt, or checking
the cut more closely, my daughter was non-plussed at my infidelity. She simply said that maybe I should always do
that. And that was that. I didn’t beg for forgiveness or promise to
never stray again. I quietly, inwardly
promised myself that I would never ask her for a haircut again.
Once more I found myself looking up salons that specialized in curly hair. There were a few in my neighborhood and thank goodness for Google, because I was able to look at the prices and let’s just say it was a good thing I was seated. These south suburban fees were a bit surprising. I know everyone needs to make a living and deserves to be paid, but I was not about to plunk down another C-note for a clip-clip. It occurred to me that when my own daughter was in beauty school, many women trusted her or her cohorts to cut their hair. I decided it was time for me to do the same and trust a student, guided by an instructor, to follow ‘the line’ of my previous haircut. I found a few places and read the reviews and chose a school about fifteen minutes away. I knew this experience wouldn’t be a short visit. Students take time, hopefully placing accuracy over turning over clients. The price was right – twelve bucks for a cut and blow-dry, as listed on the website. I called, committed and took the chance.
My student stylist, Adriana, was only
a few weeks away from graduation and I took this as a good sign. She did the requisite consultation, checked
with her overseer, then took me to the sinks.
Ah, my favorite part. Comfortably
reclined, no carrot peels or coffee grounds in the basin, and a nice long head
massage. Back in the chair, she cuts,
and checks with me and cuts some more. Deidra
comes over a few times to make suggestions and the whole rigamarole begins
again on the other side of mead. I left
my wristwatch in the car, on purpose. I
knew this short cut would take a long time and I did not want to stress over just
how long it might be. A wise friend once
told me that life is a constant choosing between time and money and this time I
chose to save money in exchange for my time.
When Adriana was finished, I asked her
if she thought she did a good job. She
said yes, and her instructor, Deidra, agreed.
I was twirled around in the magical chair to see for myself, and I too
was happy. I paid in cash and gave my
nascent stylist the change as a gratuity.
You can do the math. I was
generous and giddy to have my hair the way I wanted it. It did not involve scheduling negotiations, I
simply called and made an appointment.
The school had all the capes, and combs and clippers needed to affect orchestrate
my cut.
The room was a comfortable temperature.
You know where I am going. Enough
said.
Will I miss my little sessions with
my daughter? Yes. I think of all the locales where she has cut
my hair. Her little apartment in the
Springs. Longmont. Boulder.
Centennial. Backyards and
balconies. Cold weather and sweltering summer
days. When she was barely in her
twenties, then pregnant, then waiting for the baby to nap. Me, watching a toddler, watching her mom cut
my hair. All the talks about life and
places we’ve been and where each of us may end up. Talking about her siblings, her friends, her
aspirations. Her listening to my stories
about my long-gone parents and my long ago adventures.
Yes, this was a long story about
short hair. I hope you can read between
the strands and think about what else this quasi-allegorical tale may be
saying. Let me tell it to you,
slant. I love my daughter, but do not
want to be beholden to her. I want to
see her for happy occasions, not selfish ones.
I am ready, willing and quite able to figure out how to manage my hair.
And that dear friends, is the long and short of it!
